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The fear provides a way out, right? A way to avoid everything. “I can’t.” What a fucking crock of shit. Of course you can. Tell it like it is: you’re afraid. You’re afraid to move forward, afraid to open yourself up. Match your fear with stubbornness, if not courage. You don’t have to be courageous. The brave are just as fearful as the rest of us, but they know how to handle it: they ignore it. At least for the time being.

You think all of those knights and dragons tales are interesting because the characters aren’t afraid? No, the knight that has to face down the dragon is shitting his pants right along with us, but he’s too stubborn to let it stop him. The real hero milks that fear–turns that overwhelming need to fucking curl up and cry into a sack of balls. Then he whips that goddamn dragon in the face with his balls

The asshole is the one who isn’t afraid. If you’re not afraid of change, you’re stupid, or you’re just not looking. Fear provides clarity. It’s good for you. It tells you–hey, maybe you step back a little bit from the ledge, huh? It keeps most people from jumping off buildings, which is good, right?

But when that same feeling presents itself when you’re at home, sitting in front of the TV? The only falling you’re doing tonight is maybe falling asleep. Why do you need all that fear? The one that sneaks up and sees you thinking about finishing that novel, or writing that song, or knitting that blanket, and says “nah. Don’t jump. Don’t do it.”

What the hell do you think is going to happen if you turn off the TV and just fucking tap on your computer keys for a few minutes? Is anyone going to die? No. No one is going to get hurt. But why are you afraid? Are you afraid of succeeding? So you sit there, on your stupid couch, your ass growing wider and the upholstery groaning under your weight (it wasn’t supposed to stand up to 8 hours straight of your fat ass sitting on it, you know that, right?), and all your dreams fucking prodding at you like demons. No fucking way. Get your ass in gear and start making something, or fucking give up the dream.

That’s the thing. Langston Hughes asked what would happen to the dream deferred, but it won’t dry up like a raisin. It grows thorns, and then falls into the toe of your shoe where you can’t get it out, it sits just beyond the reach of your fingers. You can touch the bristles, feel their sharp tips, but you can’t grasp it.

So every time you put on your shoes to go out and do something, to make something, to be something, it prods at you. That dream turns into a fear thorn that you can feel every time you move. The only way to get it out is to fucking realize your dream by absorbing it into yourself or cut it out. There is no in-between. There’s no halfway dreaming. It’ll make you crazy. No halfway courage. You can’t simultaneously hold your fears close to your heart and use them to slay the dragon. You’ve gotta let go of something. You choose.